


The Apprentice

by Heiots



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:55:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiots/pseuds/Heiots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson is a self-sufficient, independent woman who meets an oddity who goes by the name of Sherlock Holmes, and he causes a hiccup in her routine cycle of life. Intrigued by his offer of escape from the hum-drum of everyday life, she becomes his apprentice. One day, it seems she decides to start a new life without him. (It's canon. It's AU. It's both.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_(2 years ago)_

The last of the day's light disperses into the distance and would have left her room in total darkness if not for the lamp by her bedside. Few shadows grace the room, the result of sparse furniture. She shuts the novel that has been open to the same page for the past ten minutes, and an audible sigh escapes her. The thought that it had been a wrong move deleting the past photos of colleagues and friends from her laptop would not be chased away. The uneasy feeling rears its head again. She grimaces, unwilling to identify it as regret. If only thoughts of 'what-could-have-been' would cease existing.

_If only._

Of course, they will never fully go away. A blessing and a curse, having a mind that often ponders such issues.

It never is a problem for him. His mental skills alone are on a different level altogether, coupled with a more than substantial level of self-confidence. All of that meshes together to create the perfect mixture. That is why he excels at his art, and she has failed at hers.

The image of an ashen man lying on the operating table flits through her mind, and she clenches her jaw against the sudden surge of emotion. Twelve years of medical school, and nothing prepared her for that one moment where she would witness a patient die due to a single mistake that she made. Were those twelve years all for naught? Perhaps if she hadn't become a doctor, it might have saved his life. She recalls vividly the gush of blood, the slick surface of the scalpel in her hand, the paralyzing fear, the tremble of her fingers that refused to still, and the accursed blurring of vision.

Her knuckles are white, skin stretched against bone. Slowly, with concentrated effort, she straightens her fingers, pressing palms against the rough material of her blanket.

Compared to how much she had brooded over the incident in the past, she's doing much better. At least, this is what she tells herself; time will numb the pain. These moments of self-blame and oppressive guilt are fewer and further between now. No more sleepless nights, no more days of staring into space, having lost direction in life, no more wallowing in the hate of being the cause of the accident.

_Accident._

As though the word itself is capable of getting you a free pass from the consequences of taking a man's life.

"Watson."

She is shaken from her reverie, disrupted by a voice that is not one of her own.

Sherlock stands there in his customary pants-and-sweater outfit, feet snug in his brightly-coloured socks. His hands are stiff and straight by his sides, fingers curled into his palms. What is different, however, is his expression.

She has seen that look before.

His gaze darts to a corner of the room before landing back on her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

He always knows when she lies, yet the response tumbles from her lips anyway.

Force of habit, perhaps.

She expects him to nod, a sign that he knows she acknowledges his concern, and he does so, yet instead of ambling off to his space down the stairs, he continues standing there with that perturbed look on his face.

The silence stretches. His features make a contortion of some sort, and his mouth twitches. "If you ever need to talk, Watson..." 

Her throat constricts for a second. "I know," she says, and immediate relief floods his face.

He nods again, to himself, it seems, and turns away. She swallows the urge to call him back, to stay with her, and keep her company. It is almost ironic, how their roles seemed to be reversed in this very situation. She always thought he needed her to be around, to be his pillar of support, and most of the time, that is the case.

Today is different. Today she needs companionship like a man in the heat of the desert needs water for his parched throat.

She is stubborn, and his name does not make it past her lips.

An hour of tossing and turning on her bed proves her efforts at slumber to be futile. Her mind refuses to succumb to sleep. She gives up and rolls to the side of the bed, springs creaking under her. Wrapped in her comfy, red sweater, she ventures out of her room and pads quietly down the stairs to the warm, welcoming glow of first floor.

He sits on the table, cross-legged, head bent low to its surface as he peers at the object of his scrutiny with a magnifying glass.

The tiniest of smiles tilts the corners of her lips. "Sherlock."

Her voice breaks the stillness of the room. His head jerks up. "Yes?"

"I was wondering if you've got some time to talk."

He sits motionless for a few seconds, looking at her blankly. She wonders if he has already forgotten his earlier offer. Just as she is considering that walk back up the steps, he takes a sudden breath and scrambles off the table. He stands by it awkwardly, rubbing his thumbs and index fingers by his side. "Coffee? Tea? Cocoa? People drink hot cocoa in times like this. I've heard women do sometimes, at least. Or they have ice cream. Comfort food." His brow furrows. "Never worked for me, but we can give it a try. There's probably time to make a trip down to the store. It shouldn't take me more than—"

"I don't need food, Sherlock," She stops him mid-ramble. "I've a question that I thought maybe you can offer your opinion on." She gives him a wan smile. "You always manage to provide a solution for my problems."

She glances tentatively at him sideways. His jaw muscle twitches slightly.

"Ever had those moments where you wonder if you're supposed to be here?" Before the silence becomes too daunting, she pushes ahead. "You know, believing that whatever you're doing is the right direction in life? All that they say about purpose, and what you're meant to do… do you think you can mess that up?" She taps the top of the table lightly and aims a wry smile at him. "Don't often get a sober companion coming to you for advice, do you?"

"You haven't been my sober companion for a while now, Watson," he says quietly. "As you very well know, I consider my spiraling into a drug-induced state a weakness." He pauses. "There is no doubt it is not the direction a person ought to take in life. I suppose you would say I veered off the right path in life…but I don't view life as a straight line." He makes a sharp turn to face her. "You studied to be a doctor. You became a doctor. You saved plenty of people. You made an honest mistake, and it led you to become a sober companion, and _that_ led you here. To be a consulting detective. I believe we have many _right_ ," he air-quotes with his fingers. "Directions, not just one. The image of life, _if_ there is one, would be more of a winding river than a straight road. One failure does not erase all the good you've done with your skills. Even now. Tell me you're not utilizing what you've learnt over the past years in our cases."

She raises her gaze from the jagged scratch on the table and sees him staring at her.

"Every step is a step that brought you here, Watson, and you are who you are because of it. Would I label my taking drugs as a right direction? Probably not, but I can say with certainty that I have come out a stronger person from overcoming that obstacle."

His words become her thoughts as she lies in bed, wide awake in the darkness, until finally, the welcoming oblivion of sleep washes over her, scattering bits and pieces of his advice on the shore of consciousness where she would find them when the next day dawns.

 

 

* * *

"Good morning, Watson!"

He greets her in a tone entirely too chirpy for the morning of grey skies that promise of snow. With a half-hearted attempt at what would be a returned greeting, she makes a beeline for where she'd find her own source of perkiness. The welcoming aroma of coffee beans permeates the air, and she shuffles to a stop before the pot. He has taught her many things, but, alas, she has found that his enthusiasm for mornings is not contagious. She hears the sizzle of oil to her right and guesses without having to turn her head that he's making his favourite breakfast food again. The cracking of eggshells confirms her theory.

"Hate to ruin the moment while you're indulging in your addiction, Watson, but upon getting up this morning, I noticed that my locks were out of order."

"My condolences," she mumbles, refusing to budge from her catatonic state.

"I suppose I ought to be more specific. Did you move them?"

Her moment of Zen melts into exasperation. How did she ever end up being housemates with a man who gets his nose out of joint over disorganized locks? "No, Sherlock. God forbid I switch the positions of your beloved locks." She walks over to the fridge, yanking the door open. "Perhaps you were sleepwalking and re-arranged them."

"I admit in some of my worst moments, I may be unappealingly unoriginal, but there is always a process in which I do things, and those locks, this morning, were in no particular order."

His voice rambles on, and she lets it fade to a background drone. It is too early to make the effort to process his sentences. She mentally runs through the list of tasks that need to be accomplished today. Call her mother to update her on her life, reschedule the dinner date that she missed yesterday which, much to her embarrassment, she has not yet contacted to apologize for her absence, and drop by the grocery store.

"You know," she cuts him off in the middle of his stringed words as she is peering into the fridge. "Maybe you did move those locks in your sleep, and it's your sub-conscious mind telling you that you need to chill." She spots the carton of cream partially hidden behind the block of butter. "I know you're a man of details, but studies show too much stress makes you age faster." The tray full of empty eggshells on the counter catches her attention. "And consuming that many eggs isn't good for your cholesterol levels either."

"While I appreciate your good intent, Watson, you are hired as my apprentice to apply your medical skills to dead bodies, victims, and suspects of cases we are assigned to, and to occasionally fix me up when I get shot," he adds as he cracks another egg into the bowl without missing a beat. "What you are not hired to be is my personal nutritionist." He waves his hand at the refrigerator. "Pass the milk, please."

She rolls her eyes, but complies with his request.

"I'd have you know that recent research has implied higher consumption of eggs is not associated with increased risk of coronary heart disease or stroke. Therefore, you have nothing to worry about."

No matter what anyone says, even from the mouth of the genius living with her, eating five eggs for breakfast hardly seems to be nothing to worry about, but as is her habit with most of his comments, she lets it go and grabs the cereal from the cupboard.

"Yes, if you intend to have breakfast this morning, I advise you to do so within the next half hour."

"Plans?" 

"With a dead body. Captain Gregson wishes to have our presence around for their latest case. Which," he does a sudden ninety degree turn to face her. "Brings to mind that I should let you know Detective Bell commented favourably on your dress yesterday." He stares at her unblinkingly with an expression that she is unable to discern. A second later, he returns to his beating of the eggs. "Of course, let's not forget that it was I who picked the outfit for you. What with you sleeping late as usual, it has become some sort of a hobby of mine."

A compliment, or an insult? Probably both. With Sherlock, that has often been the conundrum. 

"And in case you're wondering, I have absolutely no interest in bearing the title of your fashion advisor. Although I suppose there's no harm in telling you that I think those impractical high heels greatly hinder the speed of your running ability. Just so you know, if we're ever chased by those wretched minions sent by evil masterminds, I'm not carrying you on my back."

"I feel loved," she remarks dryly as she dumps a spoon in her cereal.

"And your skirts can stand to be a little longer. It gets rather distracting for the cops. You know, they have duties to perform." He must feel her glare because he goes on to say, "Merely stating my observations, Watson. I have absolutely no issues with your clothes, but a fact is a fact. Men are susceptible to the weaknesses of the flesh." He scrapes the heap of scrambled eggs into a clean bowl and carries it over to the table, pulling his chair in as he seats himself opposite her. "Eggs?"

She declines. Her hunger subsides after a few spoonfuls of cereal, and she surreptitiously studies her companion, busy forking up his breakfast from his bowl. "What's this case we're working on?"

"Lovers' spat gone wrong. Girl shot by boyfriend who then committed suicide. Captain Gregson suspects foul play, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's an open-and-shut case. People fail to realize that most often, the ones who hurt them are those closest to them."

She doesn't have to ask what is on his mind, or more specifically, who. The name of the woman who has left an indelible mark on her companion hangs heavy in the air like the snow-laden clouds outside the Brownstone. She'll never admit it to him, but there is a part of her that is genuinely curious about what kind of woman Moriarty really is to have succeeded in tricking one of the smartest men in the world.

Their conversation has come to a lull. She watches as he finishes his breakfast. Occasionally, he'd be willing to open up to her, but most of the time, he'd rather brush her and the questions he considers to be invasive away. One never knows which category a moment will fall under. She decides to venture forward with tentative steps. "So," she begins hesitantly. "You'd rather not let anyone else get close because of the risk of getting hurt?"

His chair gives a sudden screech as he stands. "You deduce what we have and tell me, Watson," he says, voice noticeably subdued.

She stares at his back as he walks away from her. His bowl clatters in the sink.

"I'll never hurt you, Sherlock."

The words spill out before she manages to fully comprehend the magnitude of that single sentence. When she does, it is too late to take them back.

He makes no move to face her. "You can't promise that."

She remembers those words as her own when he assured her he would never let any harm come to her. Any shadow of doubt that she has spoken too quickly, of making a promise she may not be able to keep, disperse from her mind. He has bound himself to the promise of keeping her safe. Can she not do the same for him?

"And yet," she says quietly to the back facing her. "I have."

* * *

 

 

_  
(present day)_

An instrumental version of 'Silent Night' drifts from overhead speakers, and sharp, staccato sounds penetrate the otherwise quietness of the building as black heels click against the ceramic tiles of the hospital's lobby. It is 2AM in the morning, and surprisingly few visitors occupy the dark blue cushioned chairs lined up against the pale yellow walls. A middle-aged man with a day's worth of stubble, eyes ringed with dark circles, sits, elbows on knees, head in hands. His gold ring reflects the lights on a glittery Christmas tree by his chair. His red and black plaid shirt hangs untucked, the ends of his jeans rising above his ankles, showing just enough to tell her he'd hurriedly slipped into his shoes without bothering about socks.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looks up, eyes brightening as though he expects her to be the bearer of good news. She is not, unfortunately. The only reason she is here during her shift is because the vending machine on her floor has broken down, and she is in need of caffeine. She walks past him with an apologetic smile and slots a couple of coins into the machine. It emits a whirring sound, and as it begins to dispense coffee into a paper cup, she hears a beep from her pager.

She's being summoned.

Picking up her cup of coffee, she makes her way back to the second floor.

He has his arm resting awkwardly on the table when she enters the room. She notes the blood on the front of his shirt and the gaping wound on his hand. "Sorry about the wait." She offers him a fleeting smile as she snaps on a pair of disposable latex gloves. She had taken a minute to clean up. "How did you cut your hand?"

"I had an accident."

The clear, crisp accent rings in the air. British.

"Were you cooking, washing, or handling any dirty equipment?"

"Glass. Forty minutes ago. I stopped the bleeding."

"Well, let's see what we have here," she says as she prepares to examine his injury.

He stays silent as she cleans his cut. His gaze hasn't wavered from her since she walked into the room. It is a little unnerving.

"I hope you're left-handed. You won't be writing with this hand for a while." she teases lightly, trying to dispel the nervousness that has settled at the pit of her stomach. She has done plenty of stitching jobs in the past. There is no logical reason for the uneasiness.

"Ambidextrous, actually. It won't pose any problems."

The self-assured way of speaking makes her chance another look at him, but she can read nothing from the stoic expression on his face. He doesn't flinch at the injection she gives him to numb the area, nor does he turn his head away to avoid watching her stitch the cut. As a matter of fact, he seems to be strangely enthralled by her work. It is the only time he has taken his eyes off her; to fixate on the needle threading in and out.

"It's rare," she mentions as she tugs at the thread. "Most people don't like watching their flesh get pricked with a needle."

"I'm not most people," he replies.

She throws him an inquisitive glance, but the expression on his face is still indecipherable. Putting the strange remark out of her mind, she returns to the job at hand, and within a minute, is placing a dressing on the treated wound.

"Keep that area away from water for the next 48 hours. After that time period, showers are fine, but try not to get the wound soaked." She pulls off her gloves, reciting the list of dos and don'ts that has been ingrained in her memory. "Some minimal bleeding might occur, but if the area starts to get red and swollen, especially if you notice that you're running a fever—"

"You don't remember."

It stops her short. She looks up from the chart. "I'm sorry?"

"You don't remember," he repeats.

There is no flicker of recognition, but something in his voice, a note of desperation, makes her take a moment longer in hopes that perhaps she would be able to place him. Seconds later, she gives up scrutinizing him because there is only a blank canvas where she sees him.

Before she can apologize, he grabs his coat and stands. "I see how it is," he says abruptly. She thinks he is about to leave, but a couple of steps before reaching the door, he stops and angles his body towards her. "Thank you," he says in a low voice. "For the stitches." His hands fidget a bit, and after a long while, he proceeds to say, "They're beautiful." Without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears through the doorway, not sparing a backward glance.

She isn't certain what would qualify as an adequate response. She's met her share of odd characters during the night, but never one who has praised her on the quality of her stitches. Having lost the opportunity to thank him now that he is gone, she turns her attention to his chart, a foolish thought suggesting that perhaps she can learn something about that man from it. The tiny seed of curiosity has taken root, though she doesn't know where all this interest in a patient is coming from, only that it is present.

She notes his personal details printed in black ink, and the first question forms.

What kind of name is Sherlock?


	2. Chapter 2

_(present day)_

_The patient is alert and oriented x 3 in moderate distress secondary to chronic low back pain.  He is 5’6” tall and weighs 250 lbs.  Blood pressure is 115/74.  Heart rate is 75.  Examination of the lumbar spine reveals patient ambulating with an antalgic gait.  Transfers on and off the exam table are difficult for this patient._

Information that should easily make sense now seem more like a jumble of letters that a kindergarten pupil has scrawled across paper. She runs a hand across her face, focusing on the corner of the computer screen. The numbers of the clock tell her that it’s time to knock off work, and a sudden wave of fatigue makes the final convincing argument that the report will have to wait till tomorrow. She exchanges the doctor’s coat for her winter one, grabs her scarf, and slings her purse over her shoulder.

Night duty has never been her optimum choice.

As she heads down towards the exit, Jeremy, a dark-haired intern and self-proclaimed jester of their department, calls amiably from across the hallway. She stops in her tracks as he saunters over, his red-and-green striped tie just a little crooked.

“Good morning, Ms. Watson. Care to grab a coffee before I start in about,” he checks his wrist where his watch is noticeably missing. “Ten minutes?”

She gives him a wry grin. “Wish I could, Jeremy, but I’ve had more caffeine I should be allowed to in a lifetime. I’m going home to get some sleep.”

“Tomorrow? Next week? The following month?”

“Have a great weekend, Doctor,” she tells him, amused at his exaggerated sigh of resignation, and bids him goodbye.

More vehicles are filtering into the parking lot. The world has barely started its waking hours, and she is ready to snuggle into her warm bed to catch up on some sleep. She tightens the red woolen scarf around her neck. It is a chilly wind that blows this morning. The weather report has predicted snow flurries for the day, and it seems there is a high percentage of the prediction coming true.

Her phone vibrates. A friend has texted to ask if she is available tonight to make up for the missed dinner date. She takes a moment to deliberate before replying with an affirmative.

It is about half past eight when she gets home, and she drops her keys into the woven reed wicker bowl on the little oblong teak table by the door. Unopened letters lie beside, a reminder that she has yet to catch up on her mail.

So much to do, yet few things ever seem to get accomplished.

Thankfully, her house companion is around to distract her from cumbersome thoughts. She plants herself by the terrarium that will need to be cleaned and rubs the tortoise’s patterned shell fondly. The pet, the epitome of indifference, continues crunching on a piece of lettuce.

She heads on into her bedroom, feeling some of the tension between her shoulders melt away at the sight of the familiar environment of comfort, uncluttered and inviting. Dropping her purse on the bed, she quickly sheds the clothes she has worn to work, and steps into the shower. The spray of hot water thaws the numbness from her body, and she emerges in a cloud of steam, fingers wrinkled from its extended exposure to the water. Comfy in flannel pants and a cotton shirt with sleeves that are too long, she crawls into bed, burying beneath the covers in exhaustion.

There is no need for sleeping pills to attain something as natural as rest.

Not this time.

Her eyelids grow heavy, and after what seems like a mere second, her eyes flutter open.

The room is dark and soothingly quiet. Soft rays light the edges of the curtains pulled across the windows. Somewhere beyond the walls of the apartment, the faint sound of a passing vehicle seeps through.

She sits up, blinking in the shadowy darkness, and runs fingers through disheveled hair. The bone-weary feeling is gone. One look at her mobile phone on the nightstand tells her that she has gotten a good five hours of sleep, an achievement that she is thankful for. Anything more than two hours straight is an accomplishment.

The idea of lazing in bed is tempting, and she takes a minute to burrow under the covers, reluctant to relinquish the soft warmness that envelopes her. When the call of chores becomes too strong to ignore, she stretches and tumbles from the bed.

Maybe she’ll even have time to go for a run before her evening appointment.

She browses through a wide collection of music from classical to jazz to selected rock albums. Today is a day for orchestral pieces. As the beginning strains of Barcarolle from The Tales of Hoffman fill the gaping silence in the house, she grabs her mail, the first item on her list.

Bills, advertisements promoting Christmas deals, postcard from a holidaying colleague, letter from her pen pal in London.

She tosses the advertisements into the trash, and her stomach gives a growl, a reminder that she hasn’t eaten anything since dinner before her night shift. She wanders into the kitchen, postcard in hand, reading the neat cursive spelling out the most recent adventure of her world-travelling colleague. The sharp-edged claws of envy are hard to ignore. When was the last time she took a vacation?

The card is secured to the fridge with a round magnet. As she leans against the counter, spooning fruit-flavoured Greek yogurt into her mouth, the picture of Mont Saint Michel stares at her in the face. It is alluring.

Perhaps next year, she’ll take a short trip to who knows where. Venice, maybe, or Paris. Somewhere in Europe.

She finishes the last spoonful and drops the empty yogurt cup into the bin.

Maybe.

The laundry is easy business to take care of, the terrarium slightly harder, but she manages. The letters to be sent out are placed on the teak table as a reminder that they have to be dropped in the mailbox.

At five, she steps out onto the concrete front steps, decked out in jogging gear. The sun still struggles to break through the thick canopy of clouds overhead. She slides her headphones over her ears and starts off towards the neighbourhood park.

There isn’t much traffic at this time of the day, nor many people out in the streets. Her schedule has always seemed to be at odds with the society she finds herself immersed in. Where plenty of her friends spent nights out partying in college, she’d be burning midnight oil or catching up on her sleep. After graduation came the job, and her ever-changing schedule saw many friends dropping off by the wayside as meet-ups and reunions were unintentionally forgotten.

Sometimes, intentionally, she admits as her conscience nudges her.

A new song comes on, and she picks up the pace, matching the beat of its quicker tempo.

It isn’t so bad actually. Being in a new environment. Life had been taking too much the form of a routine cycle. For someone who has always had a goal to work towards, to strive for, she suddenly found herself lost without direction. Motivation, her constant companion, had chosen to abandon her, leaving her well and truly alone.

Hard to believe that a year ago, she was resistant to the whole idea of packing up and moving. It took a while to get adjusted, even for the one who adapts easily to change, but she thrives on challenges.

Or, to put it more accurately, she thrived on the very idea that a change would magically reveal her purpose in life again.

A pigeon perches on the back of a wooden bench, staring at her out of its beady eye. The rest of its fellow compatriots ought to be nearby. If she came a little later, she would probably witness the old man with his stooped shoulders tossing feed to the birds. They never speak to each other, but there is the occasional nod and exchange of courteous, slightly bashful smiles.   

By the time she finishes a complete round of the park, snow flurries have made their long-awaited appearance, and they bestow little icy kisses on her face. It’s about time to head on back anyway. As she crosses the road, she blinks away a snowflake that has landed directly on her eyelashes. A car honks in disapproval when she doesn’t move fast enough, and she lifts her hand in apology, a warmth spreading across her face that has nothing to do with the exertion of energy. Someone once told her she was a menace to traffic wearing her headphones out. She has no doubt the driver would be in full agreement.

The clock shows fifteen till six when she steps back into her house. There is ample time to clean up and get prettied up for the girls’ night out.

Who knows, she just might be the earliest. The location of the diner is within walking distance after all.

* * *

 

The chatter of the dinner crowd spills over into the night, where snow is gradually accumulating on the streets. Multi-coloured lights hang on the outside of the restaurant while various Christmas decorations ranging from a Nativity set to stockings patterned with Santa on a sleigh fill the interior. A large tree laden with sparkling ornaments stands in a corner with a gold star glittering at the top.

The diner has spared no expense in creating festive cheer, and her friends seem to be caught up in the mood as well, ribbing her about her often MIA status in a light-hearted manner that she doesn’t take to heart. All the same, she is thankful when the waiter arrives to take their orders.

Charlotte, a ginger with deep, red locks, adds in an order of wine. “To celebrate the festive season,” she says in defense. “That, and the fact that Joanie’s together with us again.”

“I don’t care what you order. Anything that doesn’t look like a McDonald’s Happy Meal or mashed up peas, I’m in.” Betsy wrinkles her nose as she scrolls through her phone. “The things I sacrifice for motherhood, not that I would trade it for anything.”

“Rule 4 of GNO, Betsy!” Charlotte exclaims, aghast. “No mentioning kids, remember?” She turns to Joan and winks. “Joash and Lucille. Betsy will be entirely willing to show you the photos. They’re growing so fast, I almost couldn’t recognize them.”

The waiter returns with a basket of bread and a bottle of wine in tow, and her red-haired friend wriggles her perfectly arched brows as the wine is poured. “So, Ms. Independent, found any cute patients lately?”

Almost instantly, her mind presents her with the image of the man she stitched up last night. Cute might not be the word she would use to describe him, though there was something about him that she found attractive. She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve been at this new job a year, Charls. I’ve other things to do besides gaining a reputation for picking up cute patients.”

Somehow, she doesn’t fancy the gleam that has come into her friend’s eyes. Typical Charlotte behaviour would be to probe her for more information on her love life.

The revelation comes a couple of seconds later when the redhead tells her about the cute guy at the bar with a mischievous grin. “He was there when we arrived, and Betsy and I think he’ll look really good with you.” She tilts her head. “You should talk to him.”

There is but one customer at the bar, and his back faces her. There’s no way to tell what he looks like. Not that it matters. Picking up guys has never been a habit of hers.

“He’s probably waiting on someone,” she says nonchalantly as she reaches for a piece of focaccia bread and daps it in olive oil. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Come on, Joanie,” Charlotte groans. “No one’s coming. Just go talk to him.”

“It’ll make up for the last two times you missed our dates,” Betsy adds for good measure with a twinkle in her eye.

She doesn’t know how, but for some inane reason, they manage to cajole her into doing as they ask.

Wineglass in hand for moral support, she hoists herself up onto the high cushioned stool as gracefully and inconspicuously as possible, dreading the notion of having to chat up a stranger. She can’t remember the last time she hit on anyone. If she did, it must have been an utter failure because she has erased the memory from her mind entirely.

This is clearly out of her comfort zone. She looks back with one last unspoken plea, but her friends don’t budge, expectations written all over their faces.

Not getting any help from that front.

She clears her throat, reprimanding herself for her absurdity. It isn’t middle school. Why would any perfectly self-sufficient woman fear holding a simple conversation?

From the corner of her eye, she takes a look at the profile of the person sitting next to her and does a double take.

“Sherlock.”

She doesn’t realize she has said his name out loud until he looks at her, and she utters an unprepared “Hi”. Her face burns, and she musters her most confident smile to cover it up. “Joan Watson.”

It doesn’t seem to register.

“From last night?”

Perhaps he doesn’t recall. Many of her patients don’t recognize her without the signature white coat.

“I stitched—”

“I remember.”

She attempts another smile and self-consciously tucks the strands of hair that are impeding her view behind her ear. For someone who has spent years conversing with strangers, she’s failing miserably at this particular connection.

Perhaps that white coat grants her more confidence and competence than she realizes.

The live band starts up again, complete with sleigh bells to accentuate the celebratory mood. She toys with the slender stem of her wine glass. Neither of them would win the Conversationalist of the Year award, that’s for sure. She sneaks a sideway glance at him. He is examining the cup in his hands, turning it this way and that. There is a darker shadow on his jaw that wasn’t there last night.

What she’d give to have an inkling of what goes on in his head.

“You have a question,” he states out of the blue, still fiddling with the empty cup.

It catches her off-guard, and her mind scrambles to grasp a topic, determined to give it one last shot before she retreats to the fortress of friends, licking her wounds in defeat.

“How are the stitches doing?”

“As well as they possibly can,” he says in his distinctive accent, tapping his nails against the glass. “I kept them out of water like you asked. No need to fret.”

It strikes her that his brusqueness might be an unspoken request for her to leave him alone. Perhaps he finds her presence an invasion of his privacy.

“I’m not,” he starts the moment she is about to slip off the seat, and it stills her motion. He blinks in rapid succession as though something is irritating his eyes. “I’m not one for much companionship. I’ve always had a…” He falters. “A certain inadequacy with interpersonal communication.” His eyes meet hers, and there is more written there than what is spoken.

Perhaps they have more in common than what she originally thought.

“If you don’t have anyone joining you,” she offers quietly. “You’re welcome to have dinner with us.”

His fingers resume their tapping on the glass. “I would not like to impose.”

“They would love to have you,” she assures him, already anticipating her friends’ excitement, and their faces are as bright as Christmas lights on the tree when she leads her newfound companion to their table.

Score for Joan Watson.

Introductions are made, and the ever-extroverted Charlotte, being her typical self, promptly starts probing into his personal life with no qualms whatsoever, and asks what he does for a living.

“At the moment, nothing of particular interest.” He laces his fingers together, unlaces them, then taps his thumbs together, and answers off-handedly. “I used to work with the NYPD as a consulting detective.”

She doesn’t miss the exchange of looks between her friends.

“Maybe you can analyze Joanie for us.” Charlotte suggests playfully. “I know we’ll appreciate the insight to this secretive one.”

Her friends break into giggles as she waves away their teasing. Secretive is hardly a word she would use to describe herself. There are no dark secrets lurking in the closet to fear or be ashamed of. She merely detests sharing personal issues with people. There are enough voices in her head for her to hold discussions with. Still, she admits the idea that this stranger might be able to carve her out in words is intriguing, and there is no mistaking the tinge of disappointment when he declines with an uncomfortable curve of his lips.

It is a senseless, inexplicable desire to hope that somewhere out there, there is a person capable of truly knowing another. How can she expect someone else to know her when she barely even knows herself?

Betsy excuses herself early on the pretext that she has promised to read her son bedtime stories. Charlotte follows soon after, declaring that her own boy is pining for her return.

A current suitor would have been the more appropriate term.

As Charlotte reaches for her coat, she whispers in her ear, “I think he likes it when you smile.” With a cheeky grin and a squeeze to the shoulder, she straightens and struts off in her knee-high boots, leaving the two of them alone at the table.

He saves her the trouble and further embarrassment of starting another stagnant conversation when he picks up the tab. He doesn’t make a show out of it, as she is well aware some men do. When he is done signing the bill, he looks, almost uncomfortably, at some point on the ground, and offers to walk her home, nearly stumbling over his words. “I merely wish to make certain you get home all right,” he adds at the end.

It is somewhat amusing that he finds the need to have to clarify his intentions. One would never imagine that a man whom on the surface appears to be utterly standoffish to be capable of the gestures he has performed tonight.

“What if I drove?” She asks as he holds the door of the restaurant open.

“You didn’t. You walked.”

“And you just happened to guess that? Or is this some skill that you acquired from being a consulting detective?”

“Simple process of observation and deduction,” he replies, making sure the road is clear both ways before they cross it. “We were all born to notice things. From a person’s behaviour, a single side look, the folding of arms, the darting of eyes, to his or her everyday routine to possessions that the individual has gained. All these are puzzle pieces that form a story.” He pauses to take a breath. “Each of us has varying degrees of observational skills. I just happen to be attuned to the details more so than the average man.”

That is a lot more than what she expected. It is impressive. Not only has he proven his capability of speaking more than a few words at a time, but he has said it in such a matter-of-fact manner that what ought to have sounded like bragging doesn’t come across as arrogant at all.

“It sounds like you’re able to solve people just by looking at them. That’s incredible.” A biting wind sweeps by, and she stuffs her hands deep into her coat pockets. “The NYPD must have been sad to lose you.”

A simple thank you or even a half-smile would have sufficed to acknowledge the fact that she thinks what he does is amazing, and she wouldn’t have given the matter a second thought, but he does neither. Maybe he has heard so many of such praises that he has become immune to them, or perhaps he doesn’t think that what she said was a compliment at all. Either way, the total lack of response is jarring.

She is left mulling over the matter for the rest of the walk back. Outside her apartment, she thanks him for walking her home, still trying to brush off the oddest feeling of having committed a major faux pas. She takes the first snow-covered step up, then, turns around. “Maybe we’ll get to cross paths again, Sherlock,” she says with a hint of a smile. “Merry Christmas.”

There is that vulnerable glint in his eyes, and that uncomfortable twitch of his lips in some semblance of a smile in return. Once again, she gets the niggling feeling that something is amiss. He dips his head, stoic once more, does an about-turn, and walks away into the swirling flurry of snow, a lone figure under the glowing halos of lamplights.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_(2 years ago)_

"These are the essential inconveniences of life, Watson. I'd much rather spend the time searching out mysteries of the universe than to waste it on such trivial matters. It is unfortunate one is required by laws of current civilization to perform such acts in order to function in a way beneficial to humankind."

Somewhere in the world, Sherlock Holmes is going off on a tangent about the unnecessary requirements of life and society. She wonders if it was the jostling crowd at the mall or the intention of the task that lies before her eyes that triggered the rant. It could be the combination of both. It could be neither. She has known him to rave about having to deal with the useless intricacies of the social structure at least once a week.

He is a rebel, against society and against the world. Many of his methods go against the grain of her upbringing, but she has, to a certain extent, familiarized herself with them. It is never pretty when they go head to head on an issue, yet any two people living and working together over an extended period of time will find themselves to have differences that threaten the harmony of their relationship. Whether or not the differences will eventually resolve themselves or drive them apart remains to be seen.

At the present moment, the combination of a nightmarish shopping trip, unexpected visitation plans, and the Christmas season has caused a rift between them, the suspected catalyst behind his current tirade. She usually finds ways to rebut him, but cleaning the Brownstone has left her no energy to form retaliating arguments.

His pacing comes to a stop in front of the stove specked with charred egg bits and dried milk spots. "You do know," he starts in a solemn tone as he rubs his chin with a thumb contemplatively. "That if it weren't for your utter lack of culinary abilities, we could have made a perfect Christmas dinner for your family, because, as one knows, an act done in person leaves a greater impression on the receiver. It would certainly impress your mother."

Taking deep breaths is the trick that she has discovered keeps her calm when her patience is wearing thin.

"In addition to that, you wouldn't have had to drag me to the mall. You wouldn't have been so embarrassed about me arguing with the sales promoter about his lies in public, and you would _not_ have gotten so miffed to have stopped talking to me."

She detects a hint of frustrated resentment in his tone and halts in her cleaning.

Sherlock Holmes may be a genius, but he can also be a stubborn nimrod to whom admitting he has erred is like pulling teeth. She doesn't remember when it hasn't been a struggle; for him to accept that there are certain boundaries that one should never cross even if the truth is at stake and, as much as she hates to admit it, for her to learn that perhaps there are certain boundaries that should be forsaken for the greater good.

"Forget it," she says mutedly. "My family will be here in a couple of hours, and I really don't have time to do this right now."

That accursed spot obstinately refuses to come off.

"Fine," is his abrupt answer. He strides out of the kitchen, and almost instantly, marches back in again. "May I remind you that despite being _smarter_ than everybody else, I am entitled to shortcomings and flaws like the rest of humanity?"

She knows that's as close to an apology that she will get from him today.

"Where is Ms. Hudson when you need her?"

"Probably halfway to Hawaii by now."

"How did I not hear of that?"

"You were busy obsessing over the lock culprit." She straightens, glaring at the stain in disgust. It is a lost cause.

"You know I am fixated on this case with good reason," he states empathetically.

She ignores his pointed look as she brushes past him. The things this man gets himself obsessed with when there isn't a dead body to keep him occupied. Peering in the dark corners of the cabinet, she notices dust bunnies that are bound to catch her mother's eye if she goes wandering here.

On a closer look, not just dust bunnies.

She pinches the edge of the container and draws it into the light, where its contents still remain unidentifiable. She cocks a brow, dangling the repulsive glob of mess before him. "Do I even want to know?"

"It's for science," he tells her and has the decency to look a little bit sheepish. He's smart enough to tell by her body language that she doesn't and astute enough to know not to go into the fine details of his experiment.

She carts the gruesome mixture away to the rubbish bin, aware that he is dogging her footsteps across the kitchen.

"Why do you care," he probes. "If your family finds these little treasures of mine?"

"Why do you bother asking when you already know the answers?" She makes a hundred-and-eighty degree turn, nearly causing him to collide with her. "You gonna help me clean," she says, crossing her arms. "Or stand there while your body does its obligatory rotting process by the second?"

* * *

" _Watson!"_ His voice thunders through the Brownstone, and she nearly slips on the soapy floor when a faint silhouette appears on the door separating the shower area from the rest of the bathroom. "Your Mum wants to speak to you."

The faucet squeaks in protest as she turns the water off. Boundaries. What does that word even mean anymore? They clearly have none. She sticks a dripping hand out, and the phone is shoved into her grasp.

"Shall I wait while you answer that call? I have no wish for you to be electrocuted during the rest of your shower, especially when we have guests coming."

"Yeah, well, can you leave a little distance between us? I'll let you know when I'm done."

He complies, backtracking till he must be at the threshold of the bathroom, because she sees his silhouette no more.

She puts the phone to her ear. "Mom?"

"Joan," the familiar voice of her mother travels through the line. "Is that Sherlock in the bathroom with you?"

The answer is immediate.

Thresholds don't count as part of the bathroom. At least, not today. They do occasionally occupy the bathroom at the same time, which is to be expected when there is but one bathroom in the entire house, but no need to have her mother jumping to the wrong conclusions.

"He's just being a considerate housemate," she finally says after wracking her brain for a suitable reply that would garner the least questions.

Her mother conveys news that they might be a little late due to the bad weather. In the midst of their exchange, she manages to slip in a remark about how untidy and disorganized the Brownstone was the last time she came. Not this time. Today, the Brownstone will do her proud. At some point in the conversation, a dark patch on a floor tile catches her attention, and she rubs it with a toe.

Odd she hasn't seen that before.

His silhouette appears again once the call is over. She thrusts the phone out with a thank you.

"Just being a considerate housemate," he says loftily as the gadget is plucked from her hand.

Why is she not surprised he was listening in?

Just before she turns the water on, the sound of his voice halts her. "Just a little note, after you're done washing your hair, you may find your soap bottle to be empty." He pauses. "Being a considerate housemate, I thought you should know. It was the unfortunate sacrifice of an experiment. A different experiment."

She eyes the soap bottle by her conditioner. There's no need to lift it up to ensure he's telling the truth.

"You're welcome to use my soap if you like."

Silence has been by far the best passive aggressive weapon to utilize.

It is only after she hears the click of the bathroom door shutting before she turns the shower back on.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes can play the perfect host if he wants to: outgoing, courteous, and charming. It is a rare moment when he chooses to appear conventional. When he tolerates interactions that he deems to be pointless, he either does it in hopes of obtaining a crucial clue in unravelling a case, or he makes the exception for her.

It isn't often, and it may not seem like much, but it is a start.

Even before the tour of the Brownstone is over, it is easy to tell that her family is impressed by him, just like how it was when they first met her brother's then fiancée.

The gramophone plays a spinning disc of Christmas carols, a lifesaver found amidst dusty records, and they find themselves alone with little Josiah, her brother's son. When the boy waves a Rubik's Cube in his fist and proceeds to hurl it across the room, she asks if he would get it for her.

In a blink of an eye, he reverts back to his usual self. "Why?" is the answer she receives. "He should learn that if you do not have the ability to walk, don't throw things around and expect others to retrieve them for you."

She doesn't know she's impressed or if it's mere exasperation that she feels. "He's not even two, Sherlock. You can't expect him to know these things, just like you shouldn't expect anyone at this age to discuss mathematical formulas or deduction tactics with you."

"I was learning to write the alphabet when I was his age."

Of course he would find a way to make it about him.

She plops Josiah on his lap, trusting him not to drop the boy on his head, and moves to pick the toy up, ignoring his spluttering protests. She takes her time, finding it entertaining to watch the great Sherlock Holmes handle what probably qualifies as one of his greatest nightmares. He sits a little too straight, shoulders stiff, barely grasping on to the shirt of the fussing child.

"This amuses you."

"I'm just picturing you as a dad. It's—"

"Disastrous. I urge you to perish the thought."

She places a hand on her hip. "Babies are adorable, okay."

"Debatable. Babies are predictable, therefore, boring, utterly inflexible, incoherent, resulting in their caretakers having to guess their needs, and have an extremely limited brain capacity." He stands, gingerly holding Josiah as though he were handling a ticking time bomb, and deposits the gurgling toddler in her arms. "Your brother's offspring just cleansed himself. Problem identified. Very high chance the solution can be found in your sister-in-law's bag."

* * *

Dinner at the Brownstone was a last-minute addition to their plans, thanks to Sherlock, who offered to prepare the meal. She had her doubts about his ability to churn out a substantial dinner at the start, but he has proven himself to harbour a hidden talent. When she sees what he is capable of, she considers telling him that his skills are in no way inferior to that of his brother, but finally decides not to. He wouldn't see it as much of a compliment.

"It's the least I can do," he says, modestly deflecting the praise that abounds at the table that evening. "When Joan found out I couldn't be with family this Christmas, she wasn't willing to leave me alone. This is one of the few ways I can show my appreciation."

It doesn't exactly ring true, but she lets it be. The situation doesn't get much better when the topic inevitably moves on to childhood: her childhood, in particular.

"Josiah's a lot like his father," Mary Watson says with a glimmer in her eyes. "Sleeps on time, wakes on schedule. I never had any trouble with him. Now, Joan was different. She was a colicky baby. Getting her to eat or sleep was always a battle."

"Mom."

"No, please, carry on. I'd love to hear more."

She stares at Sherlock, who is intentionally ignorant of her glower.

"I've always told Joan she came out a hard-headed individual the day she was born. You'd be hard-pressed to change her mind when it's made up."

Oren, who borders between being a doting brother and an annoying older sibling, doesn't help matters any. "Once she came across a stray kitten with a thorn in its paw, and she insisted on taking it home. Mom's allergic to cats, so there was no way of housing it, but she was adamant on getting it treated. She was, what? Thirteen, fourteen?"

"She paid for its trip to the vet out of her own pocket."

"Sounds like Joanie always has the heart to help," Gabrielle says with a warm smile.

"Yes, it does seem that way, doesn't it?" her mother remarks with an indecipherable expression. "She's turned out pretty well, carving her own path out."

"She certainly has." Sherlock scoots his chair back from the table. "More banoffee pie, anyone?"

As the night wears on, she manages to relax a little, even enjoying a bit of banter with her brother. In the few moments that make her want to take shelter beneath the table, she finds that her gaze, searching for an unobtrusive place to land, often falls on Josiah, who naps in his portable bassinet. One can certainly be envious of an inflexible, dependent being with limited brain capacity when that being is blissfully oblivious to awkward surroundings.

Before she knows it, the clock strikes ten, and they get ready to leave, bundled up in coats and scarves. She watches the backlights of their car disappear around the corner amidst the whiteness that blankets the neighbourhood. When she turns back, Sherlock has vanished. Almost as if with a sense of loss, she wanders back to the study area.

The Brownstone is quiet once more sans the fire that crackles and casts dancing shadows on the ground, the darting flames creating a mesmerizing image. A single Rubik's Cube lies before it, disturbing the unnatural tidiness of the house.

It must have been left abandoned in the family's rush to avoid the worst of the snowstorm.

She takes a seat in the brown leather chair by the fireplace and pulls strangely cold feet up, hugging her knees to her chest. The scent of her mother's perfume still lingers after a parting hug, and it gives rise to an emotion that hasn't made its presence felt in a long while.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

His voice startles her.

He lowers himself to the ground. On the tray that he sets on the floor sits two ceramic mugs of steaming beverages, tea, she guesses, and a rolled-up pair of pink-and-green striped socks with musical notes haphazardly decorated on them. He picks up the azure-coloured mug and the woolen socks, offering them to her with an expectant look.

It's almost uncanny how often he's able to tell her moods without her having to speak a word.

She takes a whiff of the tea.

Chrysanthemum.

Her chest gives a twinge. Her mother used to make tumblers of it for her.

"Full scholarship to Yale, first place in a local piano competition at the age of ten, a fondness for Chopin pieces, an aspiration to be a vet." He rattles off bits of her life as if they were written lines of a fictional composition. "I learnt more about you today than what you've ever told me, Watson."

The tea is hotter than expected and scalds her tongue. She sets the mug down in silence. There is no reason to refute his words. He is not oblivious to the fact that she likes to keep things to herself. That is why their partnership works. Unlike other relationships that need constant two-way communication, Sherlock Holmes, the man with a penchant for deciphering people through mere observation, doesn't need her to verbalize in order to know her.

She watches him silently as he picks up the Rubik's Cube, ignoring the voice that accuses her of using her companion as an excuse to maintain status quo. He has never complained about her need for personal space, and why should he? For every one question she asks about him, he manages to deduce ten things about her personal life. Even though a tiny part of her resents that invasion of privacy, the unevenness of the playing field, she does not begrudge him his gift. It is what he does, and it isn't as if he can decide to cease noticing details and putting together puzzle pieces.

He carefully places the toy on the floor between them. All it required was little turning here, a bit of twisting there, and the inanimate puzzle is solved, all fifty-four squares of the six sides restored to their rightful place. Simple as that. She wonders if he views people the way he views the lifeless object; a mere puzzle to be solved, only in a more fascinating way.

"You never speak of these things, Watson."

She busies herself with the newest trinket encircling her wrist. The row of six cut diamonds set in the slender bracelet sparkles, reflecting the firelight in numerous directions. "I didn't see a need to," she finally says. "You already knew most of that."

"Because I deduced it. Not because you told me."

"Is there a difference?"

She isn't looking for an answer, and he doesn't give her one. The unsettling wind howls around the walls of the Brownstone, accompaniment to the fiery orange flames that spit and hiss in their dance.

"She's proud of you, you know," he utters quietly, staring into the fire. "Your mother."

Her eyes flicker towards him in surprise, thoughts diverted by the slight wistfulness in his voice. Perhaps despite being a rebel, despite raving against the superficial concepts of society, marriage, and the like, there is a part of Sherlock Holmes that craves for acceptance, to have someone be proud of him.

The clock strikes eleven. He excuses himself to go to bed.

They don't wish each other Merry Christmas. They do not have that habit.

* * *

The airborne plane suspended in time amidst a bright blue, cloud-speckled sky. The faint tinkling of scales on a piano. The images of smiling faces followed by a thunderous roar of applause. Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition.

_Joan._

Oren's booming laughter. The lingering fragrance of cherry blossoms. The gently twirling descent of a single leaf, caught and played back on film. The multi-coloured spokes of a Ferris Wheel, spinning faster by the second. The cacophony of gaiety. Adrenaline coursing through veins.

The paralyzing fear.

_Joan!_

The muffled calls echo, persisting in their urgency and dragging her from the thick fog of restless sleep. She fights against the grasp, her chest tightening with each struggle to breathe.

In the pale luminous light that trickles in from the windows, he comes into focus. Words tumble from his mouth. It should have been a forewarning; the fact that he is calling her by first name, but it doesn't register until later, much later after she hears the word that life has taught her to detest, that one word that wraps thick coils of dread around her heart, sinking in venomous fangs of fear.

It is said that an individual experiences many different moments in life; joyous instances, poignant ones, moments that have been dulled by time, and plenty that have already been forgotten, lost in the abyss of the past. Few are considered life altering, and they are the memories that have been etched so deep in your mind that, no matter how hard you try, they stay with you till the day you die.

The night of the accident becomes one of those moments.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

 

_(present day)_

_Your eyes flit open in the darkness. The old, familiar fear is back, the kind that gnaws on your stomach like cancer that cannot be satisfied. Much more than just the fear of the dark, it is something bigger. Of what exactly, you cannot pinpoint. Only that it slowly poisons your insides and rises to the back of your throat like bile. You cannot fall back to sleep. You feed yourself broken pieces of logic, but they are of as much use as prescription pills for an incurable disease. You do it anyway: swallow down the fear, shut your eyes, and tell yourself nothing's wrong._

* * *

Underlying the dissonance of the crowd of people talking, couples laughing, babies crying, kids screaming, is the low hum from the refrigerators in the ice-cream store. To the left, the arcade shrouded in darkness gives off bleeps and beeps from its various machines, waves of sounds that scrap their way into his inner ear down his throat. Neon lights flash every few seconds in rows and random patterns, liable to create a migraine or send a person into a frenzy if one stares long enough.

He looks away. His gaze collides with a teenager, dressed in jeans and sneakers, emerging from a second-hand shop. The boy's eyes flitter down to the left as he scurries away. He has no doubt if he scours that worn backpack in his clutches, he will find an item or two that belong to the store, but the youngster has already vanished in the crowd.

A faint shattering of glass from the café, hacking coughs, and the high-pitched jingling of keys sound all at once.

It is an accurate representation of the racket inside his head.

At the age of eight, his inability to focus and short attention span became an annoyance to those who thought his actions were merely those of an attention-seeking boy whose spirit needed taming. They, as well as he, had no clue that his senses were keener than most. Much keener. The sensitivity and expansive mind gained less praise and served more as a magnetic source of attracting boarding school tyrants, so at that age, he learnt to sit still and be quiet while his mind runs the speed of a bullet train.

Over the years, he created invisible barriers to secure a place for his thoughts, where worthless information and details are sifted out from the worthwhile ones as an effort to retain sanity. It has taken a truckload of patience to construct the walls of safety, yet within the span of one year, he has seen them slowly begin to disintegrate, allowing what was once held at bay to seep in and clutter his space, like pests invading his living quarters.

He has always prided himself for the uniqueness of his mind: the ability to be rational and logical, to analyze and carve away at enigmas, whittling them down to their simplest forms.

Perhaps the ultimate fate of every system is eventual self-destruction.

It is the natural process, is it not?

A quick glance shows that she is still on the phone. Her words are faint, much of the volume lost in the din of the crowd, but whoever it is on the line with her, she clearly does not have a close relationship with. Judging from the way her gaze wanders and the slight motion of her lips, she has every intention to end the call as soon as possible.

He contemplates her, convinced she is unaware of his scrutiny, and wonders when he came to be so utterly dependent on her. It is hard to pinpoint when exactly: the date, the time, the very second. He only knows that his life has sorely felt the lack of her presence. He distinctly recalls lying on a wide expanse of abandoned land one particularly trying night, picking out starry constellations in the black canvas sky while attempting to unravel the conflicting emotions that run turbulent within him. He should have known that it was a futile effort, that the emotions would unravel him instead. They always did.

Yet another unsolved case to join the others in his chest of failures.

She is placing the device back into her shoulder purse. By the slight lift of the corner of her lips, a smile offered for the interruption, and the faintest crease between her brows, he knows that an apology is on the tip of her tongue even before she speaks.

"It's quite all right," he says, a tad prematurely it seems, when he receives a perturbed look from her. Waiting for a response that he knows is coming is but a waste of time, but if he isn't careful, that very practice might just push her away. She, who fiercely guards her privacy, would most certainly not appreciate him delving into her mind as and when he likes. He does, of course, do so often without thinking, it being second nature to him, but he has taken measures to ensure that she doesn't feel as though he has overstepped his boundaries.

Still, old habits die hard.

They step into the quickly filling elevator. As the last passenger steps on, he hits the button to shut the doors.

"Your car or mine?" She asks in a low voice, characteristically conscious of surrounding people.

"Yours," he tells her, hands tucked in pockets, fingers doing their customary fidget against the wool flannel fabric. "Mine has been carted away to the repair shop."

It suffered major damage from an intentional car crash due to a certain impulsive nature, but she has no need to know that.

He'd seen it coming that night at that hospital: the breaking point. It had been sixteen months since he'd last seen her. When he did, he'd heard his own breath catch, the pounding of his heart in his ears taking precedence over the throbbing pains of the hand he had cut himself. He watched her, attentive to each and every detail, from the casual snapping on of latex gloves to the faintest hint of lavender amidst the smells of iodoform and rubbing alcohol; elements that awakened memories dulled by time.

It became apparent that she didn't recognize him.

He'd driven off with hidden spikes piercing his flesh and agitation in every bone. Minutes later, his car was totalled, meshed with a tree in his way. He'd emerged unharmed, but the rage was not satisfied until after he'd rammed his fist repeatedly into the wall. When the anger was spent, he realized that the stitches were torn, her work ruined. In the dingy one-room apartment that he'd rented, he re-stitched his own wound, and covered the bruised knuckles with the bandage.

It makes him unpredictable, the anger. It seldom shows its face beyond the boundaries of his mind, simmering beneath the surface beneath the calm exterior that he assumes. It lets itself be known as and when it likes, boasting its power over him in the occasionally lashing out when he is alone. He sees it in the toppled stacks of disorganized books lying unread in his room, the faint outline of footprints layered atop each other on the wall, and the little spider-web cracks in the mirror.

The red, raw knuckles, the dark circles, the bloodshot eyes.

And before he destroyed the mirror, lurking somewhere behind the anger, he saw it.

The guilt.

With it came the darkness, beckoning to him, tempting him to give himself up to sweet oblivion. It came back with a vengeance that Christmas, as he sat there at the bar, waiting for the opportune moment to bump into her. He, the man of details, overestimated his abilities, pitting his strength against addiction and nearly did disappear back into the abyss. It was impeccable timing, her showing up when she did, reeling him back in to safety at the last minute.

Where would he be now if she hadn't shown, if he'd somehow made a miscalculation?

They stop by a black Nissan. He slides in, detecting the citrus fragrance of the air freshener. He scans the interior, noting the absence of any objects of sentiment. None of that junk he sees people fill their cars up with: no fluffy stuffed toys positioned in neat lines, no bumper stickers that he noticed, nothing hanging from the rearview mirror.

Neat, clean, impersonal.

"You were pretty good at the bowling alley," she begins as she shifts the gears, and they inch forward. "I never would've pegged you as a sports aficionado."

He shrugs. "Simple calculations. I merely observed the players around me, judged the position and the speed required for optimal result, and applied it to my form. Unfortunately, sports require more than just intellectual skills. I fell short of strikes due to a lack of muscle memory with said sport." He pauses. " _You_ are quite proficient at it, I see."

He hears an amused expelling of breath. "I don't bowl much. I don't even do sports that much. What I know, I learn from the games I watch, books I read, medical cases. I don't often have time to play. Just got lucky today, I guess." She glances over at him and smiles. "Thanks for accompanying me. I don't usually go to these gatherings."

"You feel obliged to."

He catches her startled look, purses his lips, and garners a sudden interest in the passing pedestrians before them.

As mentioned, old habits die hard.

Eight beats pass before she breaks the silence with the introduction of a safer topic.

"Jeremy was impressed when you told him you completed an entire book of crossword puzzles within a day." 

Two books, to be precise, within the span of three hours when boredom was quite literally driving him out of his mind. However, Jeremy, as she so fondly calls him, comes across as an individual who would not take his word for it. Call it a hunch, a vibe, the result of years of reading people. For some reason, he decided to water it down for the man. Certainly not something he does often, or at all, but he's extracted a form of pleasure in fooling the man who seemed to have charmed the socks off every person at the gathering, including Watson.

All, but him.

Accolades and good looks one may have plenty of, but it does not speak much for one's character. There's something about that man that grates on his nerves.

He shifts in his seat, needles under his skin resisting his attempt to wish them away.

She glances at him, concern framing her face. "You didn't pull a muscle or anything during the game, did you?"

"I might have over-exerted myself," he replies. "I am seldom an active participant in strenuous activities. Might be the cause."

They park in an empty lot down the street that her place is located at. He lets her lead the way to her apartment though he's quite capable of making his own way there blindfolded. For thirteen days, he has familiarized himself with the life she has led without him: the route she takes to work and back home, the evening jogs, the habitual chat with the old man in the park, and the rare trip she takes to town when she isn't on the job.

On the surface, it might seem like not much as changed, and yet everything has.

"It's not huge," she says as she inserts the key into the slot and pushes the door open. "But it's my safe haven."

He steps in, and details lodge into his brain within a matter of seconds. The furnishings match with a style that he recognizes as distinctly hers: not showy, but modestly classy. A 32-inch flat screen television stands atop a wide solid black cabinet, likely to house her collection of DVDs, music, as well as a player. Two tall, dark speakers stand at attention like trained soldiers by its sides. The leather couch looks and smells as though it just arrived brand new from the furniture shop. A glass table stands on a hand-knotted wool rug of rust, gold, and brown hues, revealing a small stack of magazines, Scientific American and National Geographic, below the transparent surface. Shoes are placed neatly on the rack: heels on top, sandals, running shoes, and flip-flops at the bottom. Particularly interesting is the lack of picture frames on the three side tables.

His sweeping gaze then stops at the terrarium.

"That's Clyde," she tells him, noticing his stare at the pet reptile. "I've had him for about three years now. He's a great companion."

He hears the affection in her voice. He blinks, the sharp edges of his teeth cutting into flesh. His throat works to expel non-existent words before he accepts that there is nothing he intends to say. He turns away from the enclosure, and his eyes land on a fresh bouquet of flowers.

Carnations, still wrapped in their pink and white crepe paper, left on the study table in a hurry. He dismisses the thought that they are meant for her patient's death anniversary as soon as he spots the card lying beside.

They were not bought _by_ her. They were bought _for_ her.

He is unable to point out the order of which a particular thought or emotion occurred first, or if it all converged at once. Perhaps it started thirteen nights ago in the ER, the growing sense of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, the constant unpleasant sensation of needles pricking his skin. The guilt that still skulks in that broken reflection of his, guilt that nibbles at the edges of his mind, and the emotions feeding on the insidious voice that tells him his reappearance in her life is a misstep on his part.

Perhaps it is. He sees now the revelation with startling clarity; Joan Watson has moved on with her life while his has come to a complete standstill.

There are no imprecations that flood his head, no sense of fulfillment at being enlightened, no compelling urge to seek for solutions. There is only a sense of total emptiness, abandonment, and the sole thought that he should be mourning the loss of someone who clearly doesn't need him.

Someone who used to be his sober companion.

Apprentice. Friend.

Partner.

The terms mock him now. He tastes blood in his mouth: metallic, bitter.

Through the fog of emotions clouding his head, a warmth breaks through: the warmth of a hand on his arm. He reads a mixture of questions and concern in her eyes. How often has she offered him comfort in the form of affection, a touch like soothing salve on an angry wound?

He catches the scent of lavender and lilac petals, the fragrance a tantalizing familiarity. Comfort. He feels the throbbing of his head start to ebb away. The tension melts away, as does the frustration in the slow expelling of breath.

What is that intangible element about this woman who has always been able to pull him back up on his feet whenever he goes into a tailspin, and why can his mind not grasp and solve this riddle?

He is weary of thoughts with no answers. The influx of emotions crashes over him like waves, and he finds no strength or will to fight the current. Why not accept that he is a drowning man?

He doesn't know who leans in first. Perhaps it is simultaneous. He cups her face, the coolness of her skin against the heat of his palm, and imagines her kiss washing away the guilt that stains his conscience. A fleeting thought darts in and questions if what he's doing is against his better judgment. It fades as she returns pressure for pressure on his lips.

He hopes she does not taste the bitterness on his tongue.

In her room, his fingers trace the fine lines on her lower back, caressing the sea-green ink and cursive letters. It almost feels like going back, back to the Brownstone.

Almost akin to a shot of heroin.

Her lips seek his out again. His hands tangle in her hair, silky blackness spread out on white pillow. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he is faintly aware that his brusqueness might leave marks on her skin in the morning, but the barely audible whimpers urge him on, driving the concern from his mind until all that's left is her name drumming a rhythm in his head.

After, as she lies beside him, he gazes at her sleeping form, too fixated to tear his eyes away. Gentle breathing punctuates the stillness of the room. He finds the sounds therapeutic, settling his frayed nerves. On a sudden impulse, he lifts a tentative hand and carefully brushes the hair back from her face. Affection is not a language he is fluent in, but perhaps in time to come, he will understand the way it works. His touch lingers on her cheek, and he is entranced by how different the strong, feisty, intelligent Watson appears in slumber.

Or perhaps the word to use is vulnerable.

His eyes wander, running down her arm and stops at the thin lines of broken skin where his nails had drawn blood. He blinks, taking in what he has done, and he pulls his hand away.

The curtains flutter slightly as a draft of wind meanders into the room, and that one voice, like a wisp of smoke, seeps into his head.

_You didn't come back for her, Sherlock Holmes. You came back for you. Because you needed her._

_It has always been about you, hasn't it?_

The prickling beneath his skin starts up again.

* * *

A ray of golden sunshine bravely creeps across the kitchen table towards a hand. She inches a finger into it, feeling the warmth on her skin, then scrutinizes him as he so thoughtfully fills her glass with orange juice. Lots of pulp.

He sets the container on the table. Nearly empty, judging from the sound of it.

She thought he'd left when she got up this morning. Her bed was empty, and she heard no noises from the outside. Turns out he hadn't. After a quick exploration before the mirror in the bathroom and grimacing a little at the number of bruising patches on her body, she donned a pair of shorts and a tank top. She found him sitting on the couch in the living room, intensely staring at the table, or rather, at her pet tortoise, which had been plucked out of its terrarium and was very gradually crawling across the glass surface. "I've made breakfast," he said without looking at her.

Now he sits with her at the table, but doesn't eat. His eyes flicker to her left upper arm.

She follows the direction of his gaze. It's a purple-blue mark the size of a hand.

A man's hand, to be exact.

"It happens," she says, putting her arms under the table as though it might help take his attention off the mark he had inflicted. "I bruise easily."

"No, it doesn't," he states in a strained voice. "I'm not usually…I don't…" he falters, the same conflicted look she'd seen on his face last night re-appearing. Then, it clears up, and she wonders if perhaps she'd imagined it all. He pushes his chair back, straightening slumped shoulders. "I have a couple of errands that I need to run. Can I help you with something? Perhaps get more orange juice at the store, or drop a parcel off at the post office for you?"

She shakes off the odd sensation and goes along with his change of subject. "Yeah, actually, you can." She dusts the crumbs off her hands before disappearing from the kitchen. When she returns, she has a white envelope in her hand with a neatly written address. "It goes to London. Express Mail."

"I've got it."


	5. Chapter 5

_The service is hasty, the coffin clumsily lowered into the ground, wet clumps of soil shovelled into the hole. Attendees are scant, partially due to wet weather, but mostly because someone who used to reside in the sticks would not have boasted of many friends._

_No one sees the lone figure, hidden amidst the shrubbery in the sea of headstones._

_She watches from a distance, having come to terms that her presence will only serve as a painful reminder to the bereaved that she is the sole reason for their misfortune._

_Clothes stick to skin. Rain trickles down her face. They taste of salt._

_When all has left but the dead, she remains, numbness spreading from within._

_One more to join the masses in the dirt._

* * *

 

 

 

  
_(1 year 9 months ago)_

A split-second of white brilliance illuminates the city, and on its heels a deafening crack which muffles the male singer strumming his acoustic guitar on the radio. Streets of buildings and pavements meld together, neither distinguishable from the other. Only the luminous lights powered by electricity turns the city into one worth venturing out for under stormy skies. The marks of multiple knife wounds on the window have long since turned into streams coursing from the dam that had broken overhead, and the glowing bulbs of the city become unfocused blots of colour. The driving rain pelts the asphalt road, creating splashes the way fish do when trapped in a net.

She had just turned eight. Mom and Dad took them to one of the floating houses on the sea built on planks and pontoons. In the grey light of dawn, she would creep outside, watching the sun peek over the horizon, where she imagines the endless water would finally meet the soul mate whose moods it never fails to reflect. She would sit there for at least an hour, watching the sun’s fiery beauty bringing forth shades of pink, orange, and purple.

On the floating house was an old, wooden contraption that, if spun inwards, would heave the net up to reveal their catch, fish flopping in panic at being snatched from their comfort zone into unfamiliar territory.

She was not permitted to touch it. “You might hurt your hands,” Mary Watson had reprimanded sternly before brushing unseen dirt from her palms as though touching the wooden beams had somewhat contaminated them.

Back then, it was understood that the parents’ word was law. Questioning the elders was not a common practice in their home.

For the rest of the trip, she watched from the sidelines as her elder brother got the privilege of working the beams. Nails left marks on her flesh. For many nights after, the last thought before falling asleep was to wonder why her hands were different.

“Looks like there’s an accident up ahead,” the taxi driver remarks casually, dragging her back to the present.

Water droplets on the glass glimmer a pulsing red and blue. Her eyes snag on a stain on the mat of the cab floor, and she tries to deduce if it is the work of a passenger who’d been too intoxicated to realize what he was doing. Still, the rise and fall of piercing sirens beat relentlessly against her eardrums.

By the time they get back to the Brownstone, the downpour has turned into a light drizzle. She pays in cash the figure that the analog numbers in glowing red show on the meter before stepping out into the night chill.

The lights are on, just like they always are in the dead of the night now. He’ll be awake. He always is when she gets home, at eleven at night or three in the morning. Sometimes, he sits on the third step of the stairway with a childlike look of expectation, hands balled up on knees, shoulders hunched, with the space around him conspicuously empty.

She wishes he wouldn’t wait up for her.

Rummaging through her purse, she finds a mint and pops it in her mouth. Like it might actually help to mask the smell of alcohol. Only God knows if it’s more for his sake or hers that she keeps up the pretense.

* * *

They lurk in the shadows. Familiar images flash behind closed eyelids, scenes from recollections that have been carefully tucked away like relics in an old treasure chest, but recent events have drawn the memories out from deep waters.

The pictures flicker and skip like an old film from the seventies. They eventually go to black, where the nightmare takes form.

Always the same stretch of long, empty hallway, the slow approach to the double doors, the glimmer of cold, florescent lights from the edge of the scalpel, the uncontrollable tremor, rising waves of nausea, and cold sweat dotting her forehead. The drop of blood plummeting, the clink of scalpel colliding with the ground, the lone sound in heavy silence.

Nobody else is around; no one but whoever lies on the operating table.

And the hands that gave her worth: stained with the life she’d taken.

Panic would wake her, clawing from her innermost depth up her chest to her throat, and she would dry-heave over the edge of the bed before falling back on the tangled sheets.

It is not unlike the nightmare she used to have. The only difference is instead of one still, ashen face staring at her, there are four.

* * *

Mornings have taken on a slightly different routine. No more finding stray tortoises hiking up her blanket or having him shock her into full consciousness. Gone is his habit of appearing in her room during the wee hours of the morning.

She pushes aside the blanket, struggling to an upright position, and squints in the bright sunshine. Eyes circle the empty room and land on the stack of legal letters mixed with Hallmark cards expressing their condolences; neither of which she feels inspired to go through. The lawyers’ letters cannot be thrown in the fireplace, but the rest might save them some wood. They are but paper and a compilation of phrases that she once bestowed on her clients, sayings that now mock instead of uplift, and they unravel like strings of empty, meaningless words through her head.

The thoughts gradually fade. In the looming silence, a far more intimidating threat resides.

Breath slowly hisses through clenched teeth. She rubs her hands over her face and swears, the one-word rant doing little to relieve the tension that sits in her chest like a giant boulder.

Without consent, life bought a ticket on a roller coaster that has gone off the tracks. Only the eventual crash would stop this downward spiral, and who knows, she might even welcome the release from the turbulent day-by-day stabs at normalcy.

In the bathroom, a combination of dark circles, disheveled hair, and deep, unsearchable things stare from her reflection. Eyes slide from the mirror to the shaver lying not too far off. Familiar voices crowd her head, suggesting that a red line or two might help with the emotional congestion.

There is no harm in entertaining those thoughts. She knows better than to cut herself.

* * *

“Bloodying your wrists isn’t the purpose of this exercise, but it certainly is the only result you will accomplish if you persist in that absurd twisting about.”

The words that grate on her nerves are in reference to the attempt to disengage herself from a pair of handcuffs. She bites back a growl of frustration and jiggles the metal constrains in disgust, allowing the pin fall to the ground. She has successfully wrangled her way out of them before, but all she has to show for her hard work so far is the pitiful, reddened skin of her wrists, rubbed raw by the restraints.

“I suggest if you can’t do it, give it up.”

Just when she thinks Sherlock Holmes cannot get more ornery, he sets out to prove her wrong.

“What,” she snaps back. “Is your problem?”

“I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” He replies in a stoic tone as he touches up the tattoo on his forearm a few feet away. 

“Like hell you don’t. You’ve been throwing a tantrum from the time we left, and now you’re telling me you don’t have a problem. I mean,” she throws chained hands in the air. “ _What?_ What happened? Did I unintentionally mess up some order of yours today and, God forbid, step on the toes of the great Sherlock Holmes?”

“I specifically told you I was quite capable of making that trip down to Carlson’s apartment myself. Surely you haven't forgotten.”

“And surely you haven’t forgotten,” she mimics, detesting both the calmness in his demeanor and the edge in her voice that borders close to a whine. “That I am a fully-grown adult, Sherlock. I don’t need someone to tell me if I should stay home from work. I don’t need you to make decisions for me. I told you, if I’d wanted to meet Ty to discuss my legal issues, I would’ve called him.”

“But it isn't just the going through of those issues that bothers you, is it?”

Sometimes she _hates_ that intuitive nature of his.

“Cutting off every connection that you have with a painful recollection isn’t going to help, Watson. Perhaps if you’d met with him, you wouldn’t have had been so unfocused.”

She stares at him, incredulous. “Is this what it’s about? _My losing focus?_ Well, I’m sorry my brain was too scattered to get anything from the crime scene. For God’s sakes, Sherlock, I’ve just started to get back on my feet. What were you expecting?"

His face takes on a shade of red. “I was expecting—”

“You told me work is the best antidote for sorrow.”

“That was _before_ you placed yourself in danger by getting distracted with a bloody stuffed animal.”

“Oh, so now you decide that doesn’t apply anymore.”

He hops up from his chair and starts pacing, fingers drumming his side. “Okay. Let's talk about subjectivity. How about when I was the one who needed counseling, you insisted that I needed to talk because it was the first step to recovery, eh? And you? Now? Whatever happened to all that advice about having to open up?” He takes no notice of her glowering at him.“Honestly, Watson, I find it all to be quite hypocritical. Talk about trampling on your own work, which, if you ask me, is precisely what you’re doing. You can go on and on about having a support system, learning to share private thoughts with others, all that emotional junk you sell. It’s pathetic. If I were your counselor and had to grade you on progress, you’d get a _big, fat zero_ because you fail at taking advice!”

“Because _of course_ I care about the grade you give me,” She returns, livid. “And who made you the judge of everything? The great Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction can now appoint himself—”

“—to the point that you almost got yourself _shot_ today. Fat load of help—”

“What I do is my business—”

“And which business are you referring to? The one you have with alcohol, or the picking up men at night? Or maybe the one where you use your job as a tranq—”

Shackled hands slam into his chest before she even realizes she is out of her chair.

He stumbles back against the table, sentence unfinished.

“What the _fuck_ do you know about me?”

Her voice pierces the silence, trembling with white-hot rage. Anger vibrates through the air. Hot tears spill over the edge, and she swipes angrily at them, but like that day in the graveyard, they don’t stop.

He straightens, shifts from one foot to the other, stops, then back to the rocking motion. Over and over.

"I think," he says quietly, coming to a total stop. "That you try to be your own support system.”

Moments pass. He comes to stand before her, feet shuffling on the floor. A tentative look flickers in her direction, down, and back to her. He fidgets, clearly unnerved at the wetness coating her face.

The motions are slow and hesitant, awkward in its unfamiliarity. Arms move to encircle her. He holds her loosely at first, as though experimenting with a new theory, then lightly tugs her into an embrace.

Tense muscles relax, and she relents to rest her head against his chest. It is a strange situation, to be in such close proximity, to hear his heart thumping in her ear. Breathing slows to match his. The last of the anger is expelled between her lips, the rage dissipating as quickly as it had erupted.

When he retrieves the key to the cuffs from the arm of the chair, he asks what it was about the stuffed animal that had held her attention.

In her mind’s eye, she sees the figurines of little dainty ballerinas on pointe, the army of plush toys, and at the end of the row, a teddy with one loose eye that smiles at her with its sewn mouth. Cotton peeks out from where broken thread used to hold the brown velvety fabric together.

“There was a boy in grade school. He transferred in late in the semester, and he had this…toy that he would carry around. A bear.” The words roll off her tongue easier than expected. “It was a dirty thing with patches of fur missing, one ear gone, and you can imagine that it made him an easy target for all the bullies in school. He was constantly getting shoved in lockers, hit in the face, his homework flushed down the toilet. All since day one.”

She remembers watching the class tyrant saunter down the row, shoving the boy off his chair to scribble insults on his textbook. It was an old book with marks all over as though the eraser had worn out the pages many times. She knows because she sat by him.

“Once, they hid the teddy during recess and wouldn’t give it back to him. At some point, I got really mad and tried to make them return it. I ended up with a bloody nose. They told my Mom it wouldn’t happen again.”

She chews on her inner lip. Nobody mentioned the real victim in that incident.

“I went home, and Oren made me tell him what really happened. You should’ve seen my brother when he came back home after school the next day. He was all scrapped up and bleeding, but he had the bear in his hands.”

Sherlock looks at her without saying a word. She holds out her hands, and he inserts the key into the lock, releasing her with a click.

The cuffs are marked with blood from cutting into her flesh. He brings her medication and helps her wrap the bandages around her wrists.

“Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?”

She nods to the tattoo that extends from his shoulder down his arm, showing past his shirtsleeve. “That.”

“Considering that the needle penetrates the first three layers of skin at the rate of one thousand two—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Something changes in his expression. “It did.” His tone is rougher. Less guarded. “But I found the physical pain to be quite…liberating.”

That night, she thinks of the fine curved lines of intertwining green. Of words seared into her mind, singing to her a lullaby.

Eyes fall shut.

She dreams of the wide, open sea, and the bright blue sky. Of yellow school buses and tattered second-hand books. Of ragged teddy bears and poems being carved into her skin, and in the dream, she imagines she hears the faint sounds of the violin playing Chopin’s nocturne in the distance while the first rays of the morning extend from the horizon.

* * *

It had taken little effort to goad her on in the afternoon. His words had only been a catalyst for the blow-up that was eventually going to happen, but it became more than mere goading when he witnessed the flippant dismissal of the danger she had placed herself in. It had infuriated him, and it makes him wonder if the bulk of his words stemmed from the fear of losing her and the frustration that she was gradually distancing herself from him.

He recalls the countless hours that have been spent loitering outside her bedroom, the door cracked open to let in a sliver of light. He would plop himself down on the top step of the stairs, rub fists over his face, and spend a torturous minute or two mulling over the unexpected reversal of positions in the Brownstone before the undercurrent of agitation causes him to pace again.

It is a wonder the floor isn’t full of scuffmarks from his shoes.

On many occasions, the thought that he ought to offer some form of comfort runs through his mind. The question, however, was never _if_ he ought to, but _how_ it should be done, because he isn’t good at that sort of thing.

When rosin has been meticulously cleaned from each string, he sets the violin back in its case. The last note still lingers, tremulous, in the air. As the last lock snaps into place, his cell rings.

“Sherlock.” The voice washes over him, a caress that leaves lacerations on his heart, and sends tingles down his spine. “Long time no see. What say you and I have a little chat?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to hophophop/amindamazed for being a wonderful beta. If it weren't for her, this chapter would not have happened.
> 
> Dedicated to beanarie for her utmost patience with me.

_(present day)_

Rich, silk carpets of deep red with Bakhara designs run from one wood panelled wall to the other, where shelves of antique vases are positioned. To the right, a chandelier hangs above the mahogany dining table, its crystal prisms refracting the orange light from the lamps. It is a lavish environment with interior design styles blending, yet he is far from being at ease. Meanwhile, the gramophone by the table lamp plays an old record of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3, and the dissonance of its first movement produces a constant grating between his shoulder blades.

“Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Perfume molecules permeate the air, as enticing as the drugs that once confounded his senses.

“He was a man with vision and tenacity,” the voice continues, airiness in its tone. “Beethoven regarded him as a great hero and a liberator of the oppressed. He even went as far as to dedicate this symphony to him. That is, until he learnt of the conqueror’s voracious appetite for power.”

Bright eyes of blue barrel into him for excruciating seconds, whittling away at his already-precarious resolve. “You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Are those nights over at Joan’s keeping you up?” She cocks her head, the beginnings of a mocking smile on her lips. “Is it the sex?”

Crisp consonants and long vowels drip with condescension. She takes a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, draped with the perpetual coat of self-assuredness. With uncomfortably probing eyes, she peruses him.

Every intention of saying his piece withers. His tongue is thick in his mouth, and the words prepared beforehand scatter like defeated soldiers fleeing before the oncoming wave of the enemy.

It has never been clearer that Watson is not present today. He is on his own.

“During my period of captivity, I spent much of my time reading. When I wasn’t inspired to paint, of course. Many books weren’t worth a smidgen of my time, but there are a few quotes I committed to memory. What was it? Ah, yes. ‘There was a certain satisfaction in bitterness. I courted it. It was standing outside, and I invited it in.’” She tilts her head pensively. “It resonated within me. I had a mind to write it to you, but by that time, you had ceased all replies to my letters and were uncontactable.”

“Not all that uncontactable seeing you accomplished mailing me news of Watson’s death.”

His response is met with a sharp glance. “My sources spread far and wide. Surely you aren’t surprised by my success in finding you. You ought to thank me for the update on Ms. Watson. Were you not pining away for her?” Lips curve to resume the lopsided smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. “What are you really here for, Sherlock? I assume you didn’t contact me for idle chitchat, so let’s not waste each other’s time, such we? I have other pressing matters to attend to.”

When he remains silent, she perches her chin on a hand in an unruffled manner and lightly taps an index finger on the chair’s carved birch arm. “I suppose I’ll save us some time. You must want to talk about dearly beloved Joan. The most recent events have brought to light your utter dependency on her. It’s quite disappointing, but on second thought, I should’ve known better than to expect more from an addict. It never occurred to me that an opponent of mine would be so…oh, I don’t know,” she muses. “Weak.”

The utterance of derision burns his ears.

“Do you want to hear how she went on her own downward spiral before the accident?” She baits with a sly glance. “I’ve got all the details you need. Let’s see. You knew about the insomnia. Did you know she resorted to sleeping pills? Two every night, without fail. Or perhaps we should begin from last Christmas, but I’m afraid it’s a tale you wouldn’t find to your liking. It involves an accident at a bar, and accidents haven’t exactly worked out well for either of you, have they?” She purses her lips. “But since you’ve spent some time with Joan, tell me. Have you noticed marks on the inside of her arms, or have the cuts healed without leaving scars? Yes, it turns out Joan finds physical pain a temporary relief as well, something you’re well acquainted with, I imagine. A simple blade, a few lines under the shower, no messes.”

“After you left, she became incessantly obsessed with finding out the truth behind her family’s deaths. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. I have to say, the entire process was rather entertaining. I was most impressed with her work. Only God knows how deep she’d buried herself in the evidence she was building up against me. You would’ve been proud. It was a fine tribute to your methodology. Unfortunately, not a shred of that evidence can be attained. All of it, lost the day that drunk driver crashed into her car. A terrible coincidence for it to have happened so soon after her own family was fatally involved in an accident.”

With the gracefulness of a ballerina, she lifts one of the two china cups from the table and blows gently on it. Steam wafts a trail in the air. When she sets the cup back down, china clinks against china. She waves a hand at the cookies laid out in perfect rows on a tray. “Hungry?”

He makes no move for them.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened. You had your own issues to sort out. But I’m curious.” Her eyes, a cold blue and yet strangely alluring, flicker towards him. “Did any part of you doubt her death? Perhaps, when you saw that she was alive and well, did you entertain thoughts that she’d faked her own death?”

His skin prickles, the whispered suggestions sending a jolt through his heart.

“You know, she ought to have regained totality of her memory. The doctor believes she’s repressing certain…traumatizing memories.” A barely perceptible smile crosses her face. “A wise decision on her part. It makes matters less complicated. What is it the Americans call it? Some version of a ‘Get out of jail free’ card, only it grants her the right to live. You ought to be happy. She escaped death.”

“Are you expecting some form of gratitude from me?”

“Yes, perhaps, but you’ve never been one to conform to the norms of society, so I’ll let that go.” She rises from her seat, brushing invisible lint from her clothes. “Here’s what I’ll leave you with, Sherlock,” she says, voice lowered to a mere whisper. “My games are far more intricate than what you can possibly imagine. In this game, you’re the dice, and even when you think you’re rolling in her favour, you’re not. The dice _always_ rolls in my favour.”

With that, she straightens, gesturing once more to the cookies. “Eat. You’re going to need it for your going away journey.”

The tattered remains of his speech flutters away with her departure. Meanwhile, Beethoven’s symphony continues to unfold, a solemn funeral march accompanying the lengthening shadows of the evening.

* * *

Altocumulus clouds pattern the wide expanse of sky, reminiscent of white foam of the ocean waves. In the winter, the garden had boasted of nothing spectacular, but with the last of the frosty season fading, daffodils and tulips peek out amidst the shades of green, having flourished under nature’s loving care.

She recalls standing in the cool shade of her back porch as seeds hidden in the loose, cool soil burst forth in the spring as blue scillas, sunny poppies, irises of deep purple, and bright pink azaleas. Her mother had transformed their flat, boring backyard into a blossoming garden, finding pleasure in nurturing the greens. As for her, she’d inherited the knowledge of various shrubberies, but not the intimacy. That much is clear from the lack of green in her apartment.

The wind carries with it the scent of spring, rousing bittersweet nostalgia. One doesn’t have to be a painter to enjoy the art, yet, for a moment, in the little patch of greenery within the hospital grounds, she imagines.

It has become her safe haven, a place she escapes to for a little breathing space during the bad days at work, and life has scheduled consecutive days of misery for her this week.

She should’ve recognized signs of a bad morning. Things got progressively worse after she first toppled her coffee tumbler in her car. If it wasn’t enduring offensive comments from her superior, it was fumbling with syringes or having to lecture a volunteer on the dire consequences of leaving an Alzheimer’s patient on his own.

When it rains, how it pours.

Partial blame falls on the sleepless nights that have made a comeback with a vengeance: that, and the recurring images that materialize in her dreams. The cacophonies of unsettling, senseless frames are full of vivid details engaging the five senses to further etch themselves in her mind. Sometimes, she sees dark, red spots splattering on tiled floor, merging with the flow of water and swirling into the drainage pipe. Other times, they are crime scenes being cordoned off or smoldering vehicles at crossroads with the stench of black smoke.

Bits and pieces of a world that doesn’t quite fit together.

Not forgetting the splitting headache that lasts most of the morning when the pandemonium in her head eventually jars her awake. All of that contributes to the niggling worry that clings to the edge of her mind, undeterred by any attempts to be shaken off.

She hadn’t told anyone, not even him, even when she’d been caught in the kitchen in the dead of the night.

That’s one thing they share in common: the lack of ability to have undisturbed rest. When the neon numbers of the clock on the bedside table glow an unearthly hour, she knows he’d either be seated by Clyde’s terrarium, staring at the reptile as though it retains secrets untold, or fiddling with the one, rusty red lock.

Not just fiddling with it, but picking it.

Pick, pop, lock. Pick, pop, lock.

It’s a constant repetition he never seems to get tired of; she assumes it has some kind of therapeutic effect on him.

That one night, he’d eyed the pill bottles before her with a strange curiosity. She told him what they were: Flexeril, for the headaches, and Sominex, for the sleeping issues. They helped with the side effects of changing work shifts and unpredictable hours, she’d continued, balking at the thought of explaining the real reason behind needing them.

He’d given her a look that made her feel like she’d been caught red-handed in a criminal act, but she’d been resolved to say nothing more. Everyone is entitled to a secret or two of his or her own, and withholding part of the truth doesn’t make it a lie, does it? Surely it makes the situation marginally better than if she were to tell an outright lie.

A spot, bearing yellow and black stripes, zips into her vision before her conscience has a chance to answer. Relieved at the distraction, she watches as the flying insect lands on a purple crocus.

The Apis mellifera.

She’s read about them on the Internet, which doesn’t grant her the skills to tend to them like a beekeeper does, of course, but she’s capable of differentiating drones from worker bees. She knows which ones are devoid of stingers, rendering them defenseless, which ones foray for food for the inhabitants in the hive, and also the little tidbit that the males depend on the females to be fed and cared for.

Now whoever said nature lacks a sense of humour?

She leans back, chuckling to herself, and places a hand on the table for support as she cranes her neck for a glimpse of a possible hive within the perimeter. It takes less than a second, but the sudden needle-like sensation that attacks the side of her palm catches her off-guard, and she stumbles, the stable ground beneath her feet having evolved into a tilting slope. As she scrambles to regain balance, partially blinded by the glare of the sun, hands scrape the rough edges of the wooden table. At that moment, the illuminated emptiness dissipates into the familiar images that flash before her: broken, disjointed pictures that vanish in the blink of an eye.

Deep, full leaves of dark green return to focus; the sun disappears innocuously behind wispy clouds.

A stinger protrudes from her flesh, and the obvious culprit, a semi-crushed bee, wiggles feebly on the table.

She forces out a nervous laugh and scrapes the stinger onto the ground with a fingernail. Instructions for treatment run through her head to calm unsettled nerves. Ice and hydrocortisone cream would help with the swelling, an antihistamine for the pain if it gets unbearable.

Oren once suffered multiple bee stings from badgering a hive and needed to take a month off school for recovery. The experience, though terrible for both him and the entire family, had provided her with the knowledge on how to deal with stings even before medical school.

The recollection takes her mind off the inexplicable event but only for a few seconds.

She rubs the uninjured hand down her face, groaning internally at the thought that perhaps the sleepless nights and headaches are causing hallucinations. Perhaps she should make an appointment with the doctor. A checkup would remove all unsettling feelings brought about by the reappearance of the symptoms.

As they say, better safe than sorry.

The motionless bee catches her eye before she leaves, giving her pause. Already, an army of ants marches forward to claim its body for their nest.

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Death is ineluctable.

The throbbing of her hand breaks through the dark cloud of thoughts.

She needs that ice.

* * *

With twenty minutes to midnight, she walks out of the hospital, physically exhausted and nursing a headache. She fails to notice the suited man in her way and collides with the body built like a brick wall. The keys in her hand clatter to the ground. Apologizing, because she ought to have been more attentive to her surroundings, she bends to retrieve them. He gets there before she does, and she wonders why anyone would wear dark glasses with the lack of sunlight.

The question finds its answer when he straightens, and the unyielding barrel of a gun presses into her side.

* * *

It is the first sensation that registers, the unforgiving hardness of the cold ground grinding against the jaw of her face. Eyes flutter open to meet more of the impenetrable blackness. Disorientated, and stricken with a growing sense of fear, she scrambles to push herself upright only to be foiled by the intense pain shooting up her left leg. Her cry resounds in the darkness. She falls back, breath catching at the unexpected agony. Tears prick the back of her eyes. She rests her head against the wall, willing the pounding in her chest to settle back to its normal pace.

Count to ten, her mentor during her early medical days used to say. Count to ten, and things will…

Will what? Magically resolve themselves?

She pushes the thought out of her head. When the pain has ebbed to an unpleasant, but bearable throb, she tugs off her shoe, wincing as she tries to survey the extent of damage done. The swelling confirms her diagnosis of torn tendons in her ankle, and she takes comfort in knowing that no bones are broken.

A sudden rattling breaks the silence. To the far left, an oblong shape of light cuts into the darkness, and a silhouette appears in the doorway. Rows of fluorescent lights burst into sudden brightness overhead, and she ducks her head, too late to shield herself from the intrusion. Patches of white, almost a fiery green, pulsate beneath her eyelids in accordance with the constant rhythm of pain.

“I must apologize. I was hoping to meet under better circumstances, but time constraints have provided limited options.”

The soft, sultry voice rings in the air. Boots clomp against concrete ground, a relaxed, deliberate saunter with a tortuously slow pace.

A low buzzing has infiltrated the emptiness, echoing the drilling in her head. She blinks to adjust to the brightness. Faint bluish smudges on her ankle stand out clear in the presence of light. She lifts her head cautiously. Blank walls stretch from one end to the other with thick pillars that rise to support a high ceiling, the cement floor unoccupied with the exception of a single chair, and now, two living bodies.

The owner of the elegant voice fixes light-coloured eyes on her, examining her like one would an unpleasant virus trapped under a microscope. She meets the unwavering gaze. The captor, with a hand on the back of the chair, begins dragging it across the floor. The screeching claws at already-ragged nerves, driving needles into the bottom of her spine. It is soon replaced with the sound of metal tapping against wood, demanding equal attention.

Her captor, gun dangling in hand, has straddled the chair, its back facing front. She gives a smile that grants no reassurance of any kind. 

She stares back, heart pounding in her chest.

“Do you like games, Joan Watson?”

_Does she like games?_

Should the right answer be yes, or no? Is it a trick question, and is there even a right answer?

“It’s not a difficult question...but just so you know, my games are always worth a shot.” Yet another smile which provides a vibe of discomfort. “I hope you liked the painting I sent you. I spent two weeks on it. _Beautiful_ house.”

Dread spreads from the pit of her stomach to the tips of fingers. “Irene?” She whispers, a wave of nausea sweeping over her.

“Brilliant deduction, Watson,” is the pleased reply. “Unfortunately, I have to tell you that Irene Adler is but one of my aliases. To her name, she’s managed to fool one of my most remarkable opponents: Sherlock Holmes. I’d say that’s quite an accomplishment, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sherlock,” she mumbles, head beginning to spin. “You know Sherlock.”

“Exceptionally well. An excellent specimen of the human species. Highly intelligent, competent in bed, and largely responsible for causing this little charade you call life. Are you familiar with illusions, Joan? It’s quite fascinating how the mind accomplishes tricking itself into believing that fantasy is reality. How it's capable of registering what you wish to see, and hides the details that you have every intention of erasing to suit _your_ world. If I didn’t find your incapability to appreciate the intricacies of my plan so piteous, I would leave you to indulge in this illusion you call reality. Unfortunately, it also hinders the full potential of my game, which remains too mild for my taste at the moment. I like to make full use of my…resources.” A barely discernible smile tilts painted lips. “Perhaps we could do a little something to jog your memory. Raise the stakes.”

Irene vacates the chair, gun swinging loosely from her grasp.

Cradling the bee-stung arm, which burns with pain, she presses against the wall as though it would allow her to place more distance between her and the woman with the incomprehensible words.

“Do you know the instant he learnt of your demise, he came running back here? Straight to _you_. Yes, fascinating, isn’t it? I was curious to know how he would react to news of your death. After your little accident, the circumstances were rather easy to manipulate. With the convenience of your memory loss, it wasn’t difficult to pretend Joan Watson no longer existed. And yet, somehow, he managed to end up…here.” She lowers herself to the ground. 

At the first metallic touch of the gun on her swollen ankle, she jerks back.

A gleam of dark pleasure appears in the impenetrable, blue eyes. “Tell me, Joan, what is it about you that lures the great Sherlock Holmes in like a addict to his drug? Why is he willing to forgo his passion for deductive work to be a...personal butler for someone like you?”

Fear is hard to mask, but admittance of it would be akin to admitting defeat, and in this insane situation she has committed herself to now, admitting defeat means the game is over. Game over would mean something she’d rather not contemplate right now.

A stiff jaw and dry tongue would not form the words to defend herself.

In defiance, she stares back at the unblinking eyes, pushing past the roaring fire that consumes her hand, the throbbing of her ankle, and the heart palpitations in her throat, even when the smile mocks her attempt at bravery, even as pressure is deliberately inflicted on her ankle until vision blurs, even as waves of pain wash over her, and bright flashes spike before her eyes.

Thoughts run rapid, in no particular direction, with no destination in mind. A voice screams in her head as the lights flicker. In the moments of darkness, images spin like a carousel out of control, as they always do at night, only with a renewed fury. Faces of family and coffins in graves; the solemn words ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ echoing through a tunnel; straight, red lines on skin; round, white pills and endless black nights; a man in his beekeeper’s suit, rattling off facts and date of the Apis Mellifera; the Brownstone and a shattered phrenology bust; crashed cars and black smoke; guns; and screaming.

People screaming; people yelling police.

And in the chaos, a voice crying, “Watson!”

_Watson!_

* * *

The massive building stares with dark, vacant eyes, its four walls the only witnesses to the events transpired within. The last of the police cars vanishes around the corner, taking with them flashing sirens, and a cuffed, pale Jamie Moriarty in the backseat. He turns away, pushing himself up on the tips of his toes with the lingering spikes of nervous energy. She sits on the curb, immersed in a pensive stillness after having won a debate with the aides of not needing to be hospitalized. Her fingers play absent-mindedly with the strap of an unworn shoe as her bandaged ankle rests on the gravel.

They said she was lucky nothing worse happened, that all she’d escaped with was with an inversion injury, together with a couple of scratches her arm sustained, and a bee sting, oddly enough. An accident, she’d told the medics, after which her eyes met his for a split-second before she looked away.

Her expression had generated an emotion, which, unsurprisingly, he could not put his finger on. While the lack of success in emotional analysis has never stopped him from attempting to wrap his mind around it, he still harbours hopes of being able to dismantle that immovable roadblock in his path someday, to break down the indecipherable puzzle into little details, to peel apart and compartmentalize the tangled mess.

The question is when.

A night breeze coasts by. He shuffles closer to her. Goose bumps trail down on her crossed arms. He shrugs off his coat, drapes it around her without a word, and after a moment’s hesitation, hunkers down.

With the ligaments of the ankle torn, making the short distance to the car would be an indubitably tedious and painful task.

Not that he’s comfortable verbalizing that particular thought.

She clambers onto his back, and he takes small comfort that she understands his intention despite his reluctance to speak it out loud. They begin the trek down the cracked, concrete pavement, without a word exchanged between them.

Strange how people change. At the moment, he would give an arm for one of those ‘small talks’ he detests, to hear a simple “Are you okay?” or “I’m fine, how about you”.

Where is the glorious, triumphant sense of having defeated his nemesis? Or the delight of having retrieved his partner? In place of those wretchedly addictive emotions is a confounding heaviness that bears down on him; guilt has come to take precedence again now that the adrenaline is wearing off, clinging onto him like a leech, determined to suck the life out of him.

“There’s nothing on this planet quite so toxic as guilt.”

Words barely above a whisper, as subtle as the wind rustling the trees, carry enough weight to stall his feet. Under the row of street lamps that illuminate his way, on the weathered path covered with washed-out chalk drawings, he halts. For a fraction of a second, a rapturous emotion overwhelms him, stealing his breath, eliminating the insurmountable guilt. Perhaps it’s what they call hope. In the rare moment that attests to encompassing his entire being, in that single frame of his life, there is absolute silence.

He feels her inhale. Exhale. Once, twice, three times.

Breathing.

“Someone once told me he knew virtually everything on poison. I guess he was wrong.” Mirthless humour laces her words. “I tried to find you. I called. Texted. Dispatched the cavalry.”

“You’re right. I was wrong.”

The admission tumbles from his lips into the night.

How strange that making public his failure would be a relief.

“I was wrong,” he repeats. “I was presumptuous. Rash. I failed to discern the appropriate actions. I should’ve…”

_Stayed._

His breath hitches.

Yes, it doesn’t take a genius to conclude that his judgment had been faulty. He’d been too busy wallowing in guilt, fighting off his own demons to notice the descent of his partner. His oversight had provided the opportunity for him to be manipulated, but he’d been afraid. Afraid to lose her, afraid she would realize how much she’d sacrificed, how she would find out he was the ultimate cause for the deaths of her family, afraid she would leave. He’d been fearful of what that loss would encompass, and the fear was a dark abyss consuming him from the inside, gnawing at him.

Yet that had been nothing compared to the sheer terror that immersed him when he learnt of her death.

“Approximately two months six days ago, I received a letter containing news of your demise. I thought that…perhaps, like with Irene, I thought, maybe, it wasn’t…” He falters, the words struggling in vain to make it past the emotions that coagulate in his throat. “I had to know. For certain.” He blinks away the film that encumbers his vision. “I sourced out your whereabouts and found out where you were working. Rigged it such that you’d be the one to stitch me up. But I’d absolutely no clue as to what my next step was. After that night at the bar, I dabbled with telling you the truth. I spent night after night weighing the options. Countless times, I was on the verge of spilling the truth, but it seemed, to me…unfair to ruin the life you’d rebuilt for yourself.”

He’d wrecked her life once. He didn’t have to do it a second time.

“And how did you find me? Today.”

He hesitates. Telling her about his plan beforehand would’ve meant revealing the truth, and the truth had not been ready to present itself. Lying about how he found her was and still is out of the question. There’s a difference between holding back a truth and a blatant lie to her face.

“Your watch,” he tells her, and with bated breath, waits as she undoes the leather strap of the accessory he’d modified not more than a week ago.

It takes her less than a minute to notice the barely visible slit at the back of the watch face. She jiggles the metal piece loose, and a tiny chip the size of a grain of rice falls onto her upturned palm.

“You were tracking me.”

A statement, not a question; fact, and not mere theory.

The barrage of words about his invasion of privacy does not come.

It is a strangely unsettling place to be in.

“Watson?”

Her name fits in his mouth the way the final puzzle piece fits snugly to form a complete picture.

“If you wish for me to leave, I would understand. I have caused you…” Thoughts arrange and re-arrange, string together and break apart, flitting around in his head. He swallows hard. “Anguish.”

“Where would you go?”

The dark, cloudless sky stares back at him. “I don’t know.”

How ironic that he has failed to provide an answer when much of his life has been spent unscrambling puzzles and dissecting mysteries. How baffling that his mind would draw a blank in this very situation when he has made numerous deductions out of even the most obscure circumstances.

Her quiet sigh grazes his skin. His heart quivers. With emotions simmering and no words left to be spoken, he resumes walking.

A lone cricket chirrups in the silence. It is an arduous journey uphill, made especially uncomfortable by the warm wetness on his face that he has no way of wiping off.

“You said you’d never carry me on your back if we were chased by evil thugs.”

It almost brings about a smile. “And I specifically recall being told if there’s one thing a certain someone knows with a hundred percent certainty, it’s that people change.”

He agrees, with the one who has become more than an interesting project, more than a thing to be solved. It is all she has been to him, and the promise of what she can be to him, that nourishes both the contentment and fear that reside in him.

“I did it, you know.”

“Did what?”

“The locks. I moved them,” she says, resting her head next to his. “I know what you’re thinking. That it’s impossible, but you’ve gone through it plenty of times. I’m the only one with access to it besides you during that timeframe, and someone told me once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

“The old windbag. Explain how you fooled the videotape.”

“You’re a detective. You tell me.”

At horizon’s edge, where the city’s skyline stands tall and proud, the beginning of dawn’s rays lightens the canopy of darkness over the metropolis. Faint, barely visible to the human eye, and yet irrefutable.


End file.
